


Maybe you're a sinner into your alternate life (Maybe you're a joker, maybe you deserve to die)

by brothebro



Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beta Read, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt Typical Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Memory Loss, No Post-Mountain Geralt Vilification, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Third Person Limited, Trials, Unreliable Narrator, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Yennefer is the best bro, hurt the bard, past Jaskier | Dandelion / ???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Geralt has been travelling with the sunshine that is Jaskier for many years now. He adores how bright and wonderful Jaskier sees the world; he loves him for it. What Geralt doesn't know though, is that Jaskier has been cursed by an evil (?) mage many many years before they first met in that small tavern in Posada.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher!Jaskier fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735504
Comments: 43
Kudos: 214





	1. The Joker and the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fic based on the following prompt :D 
> 
> _if ur still taking witcher jaskier prompts... some angst? jaskier the bard has not been torn apart by the world. he has seen the worst of it, the bowels of monsters, of beasts and humans, but he has bounced back; it doesn’t crush him. julian the witcher is jaded. he’s seen too much, and it weighs on him. he does not look at the world with bright eyed optimism the way jaskier does. maybe some angsty geralt POV of him mourning how happy jaskier was, or jaskier going back to julian and the Pain_
> 
> Many thanks to [ TheJaskiestOfThemAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJaskiestOfThemAll/pseuds/TheJaskiestOfThemAll) for Beta-ing this fic and helping out with the ideas <3 
> 
> Also many thanks to StarsInMyDamnEyes for the moral support and for tolarating my screeching <3

As all great meetings, this too, happened in an inn, in a tiny shithole of a town called Upper Posada. 

Geralt had stopped earlier this day at the tiny dank and absolutely horrid tavern, to have a nice mug of ale --a quick reprieve from the unrelenting summer sun-- before he hit the road again. Lately, things have not been great, to say the least, the reputation of the witchers in an all-time low (all because of him and the horrid deed he did at that town nearly a decade ago), jobs hard to strike and sparse leaving him close to penniless, dressed in what’s practically the patchwork of a patchwork of an armour. 

Great fucking job Geralt. You had to go and kill those… people in the middle of the fucking town. 

He does still have to take the chance and enter settlements, no matter how scorned upon he personally is. No matter how many will chase him away. It shouldn’t bother him anyway. witchers don’t have feelings --or so they say. He’s a witcher first and foremost and a witcher must be at the service of the Continent. 

He’s glad no one is paying attention to him here in Posada. Left alone to quench his thirst in peace while enjoying the performance of the fuck-up of a bard that’s prancing around in his fancy blue doublet singing of abortions of all things. 

_ He is amusing _ , Geralt must admit. A change of pace from the usual snobbiness that comes with the trade. 

So when the bard comes at Geralt’s deep corner table, all swagger and bad pick up lines ( _ You can’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting? Seriously? _ ) he’s certainly surprised. So surprised he can’t quite remember what the bard asked him in the first place. Something about a review, was it? 

Hmmm.

Thankfully the foppish bard queries again and Geralt can muster all of his social skills (they have regressed to close to none, after the Blaviken fiasco) and grunt a --what he believes to be-- witty response. Gives the bard his last coin -- _ fuck that’s bad--  _ and turns to leave. He has to find a contract after all, and soon. 

And the contract comes his way at last. A devil stealing grain, huh. Bunch of nonsense. It’s probably a team of rag-tag of bandits. Nonetheless, the coin is adequate and best of all upfront and he’s in no mood to challenge Destiny again. 

The young bard follows him, apparently, fear and self-preservation instinct forfeited in favour of a love for danger and adventure.  _ And people.  _

_ - _

After the Dol Blathanna incident, the bard becomes Geralt’s personal barnacle. The road is no longer silent, Jaskier’s constant babbling and singing filling the air. Geralt will never admit it to the younger man --lest he wants him to become even more insufferable-- but he enjoys his company. He finds his days are no longer dull, the cities and towns and little hovels no longer threatening or bleak. 

Where Jaskier goes, life seems to bloom. He brings out the best in people (even Geralt). With a smile and a song, a cutting remark and a strong right hook, Jaskier trudges through life unwavering. Where Jaskier goes, coin follows, ale follows, fine company follows. And Geralt, Geralt won’t start questioning it. Nor now or ever.

Jaskier quickly finds a way into Geralt’s frigid, tired heart. 

As he does in many many households. The amount of times Geralt has to save the foolish slut of a bard from an angry husband, wife, father, is quite frankly unnerving.

_ But he would gladly do it again. And again.  _

Years, they spend on and off together on the Path. Jaskier’s weapon, his silver tongue and songs. He’s Geralt’s friend. Of course, he is; his best friend. Though Geralt himself will continue to deny it, keep his stoic facade, carefully crafted after years and years of loneliness and pain. 

It’s best to keep a distance, just observing from the sidelines, the life he can never have. It’s best if he doesn’t allow himself to feel so deeply, lying again and again and again to himself that witchers have no feelings.  _ They are not supposed to, at least.  _ If he says it enough he might believe it someday. 

So when Jaskier asks him to be beside him at a royal banquet to protect him from the scorned noble husbands -- who are rightfully angry at him-- he acts like it’s going to be a chore. Like he doesn’t want to. But gods is he lying through his teeth. 

And when Jaskier leans on the tub and says so easy, so nonchalantly, “ _ perhaps somebody out there will want you _ ” something inside the unfeeling Witcher melts. 

And it keeps melting every time he has to save Jaskier from a noble that almost recognized him in this blasted banquet. Every time he hears him sing, sees him wink. Every time his blue eyes meet Geralt’s amber. There’s this… fondness (?) swelling in his chest when he meets the gaze of the younger man. 

Political nonsenses --that are always present in such events -- aside, Geralt’s having a great time at Pavetta’s betrothal thing. Now only if Calanthe would stop being such a damn brute and actually request a song other than ‘the fishmonger’s daughter’. Jaskier certainly has the repertoire and range.

The blasted song does stop after the twentieth time it has been played -- and Geralt can see the sigh of relief coming from Jaskier -- only for the main event to commence. Namely, the choosing of an adequate groom from the young princess of Cintra. 

And that’s when everything goes to shit once again. Cursed hedgehog knights, a whole lot of fighting and an incredible display of Pavetta’s innate magic Geralt finds himself with an unborn child-surprise and banned from Cintra for life. 

_ Fuck.  _

Still, what really stays with him of this event is his bard,  _ Jaskier _ . His songs, his grace when performing, how easy it is for him to engage in pleasant conversation even though pretty much half the attendees there would love to cut off his balls and hang them as a decorative reminder outside their estates. 

It’s naive, how carefree Jaskier is. But why is it so… so… pleasant? Refreshing? How can the bard see this wretched world so beautiful, Geralt will probably never understand. And yet, he tries. He tries so hard because he wants, no, he needs to feel that way.  _ He’s so tired of hatred, fear and indifference.  _

-

It’s fucking awful. Everything is bloody distressing. 

Geralt is unable to think, sleep or rest. He hasn’t closed his eyes properly in what feels like weeks. Bloody Cintra, fucking banquets and silly traditions be damned. What was he thinking claiming the Law of Surprise like this;  _ like a joke.  _ Destiny isn’t a fucking game. He should have known better. Renfri did warn him all those distant years ago. She warned him and yet he drove a blade through her heart. 

Fucking hell.

With his bard by his side, he always becomes so foolish. So optimistic. It’s almost like the little voices in his mind that remind him of all he’s wronged and will possibly wrong in the future, disappear while Jaskier is by his side.    
  
And see, that’s the problem right now. His bard is off fucking some Countess and has been the past month or so and Geralt, Geralt is absolutely miserable. So, when Jaskier waltzes by Geralt while he’s out djinn fishing, utterly inebriated and a complete disaster, smelling of salty tears and Est Est, Geralt doesn’t know how to react. He’s mad, he’s angry and he’s so so sleep deprived. 

He lashes out. Says something about a pie with no filling when prompted to state his opinion about Jaskier’s singing voice. 

He doesn’t mean it. 

He loves Jaskier’s voice. 

What happens next is a blur. He finds a sealed amphora in the lake, there is a tug of war that somehow happens and an exchange of unjustly mean words. The amphora breaks, he cuts his hand and Jaskier babbles some pretty selfish wishes. 

In a fit of anger, Geralt wishes for silence. And witnesses Jaskier choking on his own blood as a result. 

_ Fuck. _

Everything goes downhill from thereon. His wish ends up almost killing his one true friend. Fuck it all. The one ray of sunshine in his miserable life! 

In his attempt to save Jaskier’s life he meets the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg, a powerful, gorgeous woman all fire and dry wit. She heals Jaskier with her powerful magic and she informs Geralt that there is a curse placed on his bard. Which, admittedly, is very distressing news to get. 

Geralt is conflicted. On one hand, he’d like to spare his bard the suffering that usually comes with a curse and on the other hand that’s not his decision to make. Jaskier does seem to be happy with his life and Geralt would loath to be the one to destroy that happiness.  _ Which he seems to be already doing, given that stupid wish and Jaskier’s swollen throat.  _

Regardless, Yennefer is kind enough to save Jaskier’s life and a touch mad enough to try to enslave --or absorb, Geralt isn’t sure-- the Djinn. He likes her and that is why he uses his last wish to save her. He’s not sure what the implications of the poorly worded wish will be and he’s not eager to find out so he takes Jaskier and they leave Rinde. 

For days that grow into weeks that grow into months, Geralt contemplates whether he should or shouldn’t tell Jaskier of his complicated curse-y situation. He knows he should. But Jaskier is happy and what if the knowledge of said curse snuffs that smile from his face like a candle’s flame does at the end of its life? He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. And it’s fine he tells himself. It’s fine. 

But it isn’t. There are days he looks at Jaskier being the sunshine that he always was and it hurts. His heart feels tight in his chest. So very tight. He hears Jaskier sing a jolly tune and suddenly needles prick at his lungs and he forgets how to breathe. 

Fuck.

It can’t continue like this.

The deeper he feels, the further he drifts from his bard. It helps that they keep crossing paths with Yennefer. With her, everything is easier. With her, he forgets all his Jaskier shaped troubles briefly. 

Yennefer, herself, enjoys the Witcher’s company and low stakes companionship. She tells him so. It’s not love, of course it isn’t. They are… friends. With the extra bit of a casual fuck, now and then. They are drawn to each other. They drown in each other’s touch. 

He likes it. It’s easier.

_ It’s easier.  _

And so years pass and he forgets. Forgets, or rather ignores that Jaskier is cursed. And when he remembers he falls into Yennefer’s embrace, sometimes for months on end. 

“Tell him, you fool,” she tells him every time they are together, “Tell him how you feel.”

“I can’t,” he responds, “I don’t want to lose him,” he whispers. 

And every time she rolls those brilliant amethyst eyes of hers and scoffs, “You won’t lose him,” she says, “You won’t, you big stupid arse.” 

He wants to believe her, he does. But he can’t. There’s too much to lose. Too much. 

And who’s to say that Jaskier will accept him, after everything he’s done? The secret he kept for so many long years? 

So he does what he knows best; he bottles up all his annoying feelings, locks the hypothetical bottle in a hypothetical box and shoves it into the darkest deepest corners of his mind. 

And then he finds himself on the dragon mountain, following Yen because she’s prone to throw herself in unnecessary danger. And that’s exactly what she does. A dragon hunt? Dragons are not meant to be hunted, noble and smart creatures. She wants a dragon in her attempt to reclaim her lost fertility. He knows. She’s confided in him. But damn it, she’s his friend and he won’t let her throw away her life like that. 

Jaskier follows him on that damn mountain. He’s reluctant at first, weary. But that quickly changes on the prospect of writing a quote-unquote  _ epic ballad _ , being the only bard to witness a real live dragon up close. 

It’s a mock of a ‘hunt’. The very same man that employed him ends up being a golden dragon, a being so rare and noble. Borch or better, Villentretenmerth his name is and he --damn him-- when everything’s done and over, when the unborn dragon egg is found wrapped in its dead mother’s body and protected from the vicious Reavers, then, he chooses to let Yennefer know of Geralt’s last wish. Which, apparently bound their destinies together. 

Fuck. 

Yennefer is furious and rightfully so. She’s expressed on numerous occasions how much she values her freedom. And her destiny being ‘tied’ to Geralt? Involuntarily? That crosses many boundaries for her. She makes it very clear, there atop the Dragon Mountain, when she yells at him and leaves huffing by opening a portal, not bothering to pick up her things from the small encampment where they slept the previous night.

Geralt feels… He doesn’t know how he feels. He’s angry, confused, heartbroken and sad all these in a volatile concoction mixed together. So when Jaskier, beautiful sunshine Jaskier, approaches him with a, “What a day!”... 

Geralt lashes out. 

“Damn it Jaskier!” Geralt growls. He pretends not to notice how wide and fearful the bard’s eyes become. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s  _ you  _ shovelling it?”

“That’s not fair-” Jaskier’s voice breaks but Geralt is too hurt and his mouth won’t stop spewing shit and he knows deep down, he knows it’s not Jaskier’s fault. Nothing is Jaskier’s fault. But he can’t stop himself. He can’t. 

“The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it!” he hears himself roar, “ If life could give me one blessing,”  _ Fuck nonononono stop godsdamnit stop!  _ “It would be to take you off my ha-” he doesn’t finish his sentence. He manages to stop himself. “I don’t mean-” he whispers, voice breaking. 

But it’s too late. 

Jaskier has fallen to the ground clutching his chest, right where his heart is and is breathing heavily. “Ger-” he croaks and Geralt rushes by his side. 

Geralt is panicking, he doesn’t know what to do. His last words to his dearest friend, the man he’s loved for so long will be utter bullshit. His words --he chokes down a sob rising in his throat-- have been so cruel that they brought Jaskier’s demise. 

“Jaskier,” he sobs, “Please stay with me. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, please. Please don’t leave me. Please...” the tears are now running freely down his cheeks. 

But Jaskier doesn't respond to his calls anymore. Jaskier’s eyes are shut closed and his heart rate is rapidly slowing. Geralt feels the taste of bile in his mouth. This can’t be happening, he refuses to believe what’s unfolding right before his eyes. 

Jaskier is… dying. 

And he’s the one that killed him. Geralt killed his best friend. His secret love. 

Jaskier’s heart has become so slow now. So very slow. It almost beats at the same rate as Geralt’s witcher heart. 

But then! Then Jaskier’s heartbeat escalates again and Geralt clutches his friend in a tight embrace. It’s not over. It’s not over! Jaskier’s skin feels hot to the touch, beads of sweat already adorning it; even though it's very cold up there in the mountain. He’s running a fever, Geralt realizes. 

Jaskier’s eyes move rapidly beneath closed eyelids, his breath hitches and his heart escalates and slows again. And again and again.

_ Fuck.  _

“No!” he screams at some point and Geralt is left to wonder what the younger man is seeing in his fever-induced dream. 

It feels like an eternity has passed when Jaskier’s breathing calms alongside his heart. It beats steady now, albeit too slowly for a human. It’s a witcher’s heartbeat. That much is sure. 

Wait. Did Jaskier go through the trials of the grasses? Was that it?  _ No, it can’t be _ . Was this perhaps the unknown curse? Will he be fine and return to his past jolly self? 

Geralt wipes the sweat that has accumulated on his bard’s forehead with a semi-clean piece of cloth he cut off from his own tunic. And as he does so, Jaskier’s brow furrows and his eyelashes tremble. 

And he opens his eyes. 

Eyes the colour of liquid gold, pupils slit like a cat’s meet Geralt’s amber.  _ Witcher’s eyes.  _

Jaskier shoves Geralt away from him, breaking the embrace, with strength Geralt never thought possible of the previously very human bard. He’s mad, Geralt recons. This is fine, he tells himself. This is fine. He’s alive and that’s all that matters at this moment. 

The bard’s brow furrows once more and his lips morph into a snarl as he takes himself in, studying carefully his attire. 

“The fuck,” he growls out and his voice is so much rougher, so much gravelly than it was before. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt breathes out, reaching a hand to his friend, “I’m so sorry Jaskier. I didn’t mean it.” 

“Who the fuck is Jaskier?” Jaskier asks taking a step back, “And who the fuck are you,  _ Witcher? _ ”


	2. Julian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Geralt can't accept the facts  
> -Julian is a bastard (but I love him anyways)  
> -tragic irony

“Jask-” Geralt tries again but snaps his mouth shut when Jaskier glares at him, a low growl rising on his throat. 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Jaskier --no, the witcher-- snarls revealing long canines. “My name is Julian.” 

Julian. The name rings inside Geralt’s brain. It echoes and repeats. It’s an oddly common name, yet his brain refuses to connect it with the image of Jaskier, lovely, loving, sunshine Jaskier. 

When Geralt doesn’t make a sound and just keeps staring at the unfamiliar familiar face, Jaskier --no, Julian-- takes a deep breath and sighs, “Will you tell me who in the bloody Continent you are and what the fuck I’m doing here with you? Or will I have to find out for myself,  _ Wolf _ ?”

And so, Geralt talks and talks till his tongue runs dry of words. He explains to Julian the twenty-two years they spent together trudging the Path. He tells him how he was a world-famous bard and that he’s written so many songs. How much things have changed for all the remaining Witchers of the Continent all because of his efforts. Julian raises a dark brow now and again, clicks his tongue as if he’s having a hard time believing Geralt. 

But Geralt continues. He tells him of their friendship, their adventures, their fights, their struggles. 

When he’s finished the once-bard scoffs, brushes him away and simply asks what year it is. 

“1262,” Geralt responds, trying to mask the hurt he feels every time the familiar unfamiliar man acts so differently, so… jaded, devoid of Jaskier’s love for everything. 

“Fucking hell,” Julian groans bringing his hands to his head, gripping and tugging on short strands of hair exasperated. “I was out for more than a bloody century. Fuck!” he mumbles under his breath. 

Geralt is left to wonder how old the witcher before him is and how long he was Jaskier. He thought his bard was less than forty winters old but he appears to have been wrong. How many more things was he wrong about? Could all of Jaskier have been an elaborate hoax? 

No. No, it’s wrong to think like that. Jaskier was genuine. It must be the bloody curse’s fault.

Julian cusses and spits at the hard ground, throws stones down the mountain with hatred Geralt hasn’t seen, well, never before. Geralt just stands watching awkwardly until the other man blows off the accumulated anger. 

“Does Haern Caduch still stand?” asks Julian, shoulders slumping, resigned. He never turns to look at Geralt as he asks this question, gazing at the edge of the cliff. It’s an odd question and Geralt isn’t quite sure what to answer. He’s heard rumours of the sacking of the school of the Bears, but he’s never met a Bear Witcher before to validate the accuracy of the information. 

“I- I don’t think so,” he responds reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the hard stone ground. “I heard it was attacked. And- and there aren’t many witchers left in the world. I don’t know for certain, sorry.” 

Julian simply nods, lips pressed into a thin line. “Not much I can do about it then. Right, you mentioned I was a bard, wolf. Must have made a pretty coin. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll go get myself a nice sturdy armour, couple of axes and be on my way,” he finally says, face schooled in an indifferent expression.

“You - you were renowned as a bard. You’d be able to afford some equipment.”

“And if I can’t I can always sell this pretty thing. Would fetch quite a bit on the market, don’t you think?” he points at his elven lute, a small cold smirk forming on his lips. Geralt’s stomach tumbles, the taste of bile evident on his tongue. It’s so different from how warm Jaskier’s smile was. But that’s not what upsets Geralt the most. Jaskier would never sell his prized lute. Never! 

But this man isn’t Jaskier, Geralt silently reminds himself, his eyes blurring as tears accumulate in them once more. 

“No please, don’t,” he blurts out, “don’t sell it. It’s important. It was-” he chokes down a sob, “It was a gift from the king of the elves,” he finally reveals.

“Oh?”

“Enchanted. Protective magic,” Geralt lies, “It always brought more coin to the both of us when you had it with you.”

Julian’s golden eyes shine at the mention of coin, “Oh, well, there’s no harm in keeping it then.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. “Well, what’s it gonna be? Are you going to tell me how the fuck to get to the closest town or should I just wander aimlessly till I reach one?” Julian finally says. 

“Right. Wait, I’ll accompany you. The roads are tricky this far high,” Geralt half-lies again. But he’s not ready to leave his friend alone and weaponless to trek down this blasted mountain, no matter how competent the other might be. He’s going to follow Julian around, until he’s certain the man will be alright. 

_ He’s going to follow him to the end of the world _ , he silently promises himself. Until Julian regains his memories. He refuses to believe a whole lifetime of memories was simply deleted. Simply gone. 

* * *

They make it to the closest Povissi town in three days' time, the descend from the mountain, eerily quiet. It’s the very same town they met Borch in the tavern. It hasn’t been a fortnight since that fated day and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. That same town Jaskier had begged Geralt not to take part in the foolish dragon hunt. He should have listened. He should have stayed put and not followed Yennefer like a lost puppy. 

The first thing they do is get Roach from the stables. 

“Where’s my horse?” Julian asks rummaging through his bags, tossing colourful doublets left and right. 

“You never got yourself a horse.”

“Unbelievable,” Julian shakes his head, “And it’s safe to assume I don’t own a single non-frippery garment? Something brown and muted would be nice,” he whispers the last part but Geralt’s acute hearing catches it nonetheless. Jaskier wouldn’t be caught dead in brown clothes. In fact, he made sure to go out of his way every single time he laid eyes on brown fabric to say how sad and burlap-y it looked. 

“You really liked colour.”

Julian groans exasperated, “Ugh… Geralt. I will need one of your black shirts.”

It’s the first time in three days the other witcher calls him by his name and not ‘wolf’. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. It is, after all, his name but… But he can’t escape the way it makes him feel; a voice that means the world to him, calling his name like it used to. It tugs on his heartstrings, it plays with his being. It hurts. Because it sounds so similar yet it’s miles apart from what it used to be. There’s no woven affection into it. No feeling. It’s just his name; plain and simple. 

_ He doesn’t like it.  _

Geralt grunts in response, not trusting that his voice won’t break if he attempts to speak. He throws a relatively clean black shirt to Julian who catches it with ease nodding a ‘thanks’. Geralt watches as the other witcher removes the bright red doublet and then the yellowish thin chemise and folds them neatly before putting them into one of his bags. 

His back is strong, wider than Jaskier’s ever been, riddled in scars --insanely so-- more than Geralt’s. Ghoul bites, gryphon talons, drowner teeth. Geralt finds himself averting his eyes, giving the man some privacy --even though he clearly doesn’t care for it, undressing in plain sight for all to see.

Geralt’s gaze rises reluctantly from its fixed position on a particularly interesting pebble, meeting Julian’s form. The shirt fits him well. It’s not loose as Geralt would have anticipated, the fabric tight on Julian’s strong shoulders and arms. 

“Do you want a pair of pants too?,” Geralt asks (with totally no ulterior motive).

“Nah, they’re a bit snug but they are leather at least and one piece of red clothing is acceptable,” Julian says, tugging on the fabric around his left thigh, “Now, how much do you want for the shirt so I can pay you and be on my way.”

“Uh... I- What?!” Geralt’s voice comes out a bit louder than intended, “I’m not selling you my shirt!”

“Then why did you give it to me?” Julian raises an inquisitive brow. 

Geralt has a hard time registering the question. What does he mean ‘why’? He pinches the bridge of his nose trying to put his answer in order. “Listen,” he finally grits out, “You were, no,  _ are  _ my friend, even if you don’t currently remember it. I have no intention of leaving you alone until we find out what the fuck happened to you. And you said it yourself. You’ve been out of it for a bloody century! You have no fucking idea what to expect. I’d be a fool to let you wander by yourself.” 

Julian rolls his eyes, “I don’t need you to baby me, wolf. I’m a perfectly capable witcher.”

“And I don’t doubt that,” Geralt crosses his arms glaring daggers at the other witcher. How much more stubborn and unreasonable can Julian become? The man before him is infuriating. Wrath inciting. Can’t he understand that he can’t just waltz around like nothing is wrong? Geralt takes a deep breath, schooling his face in a neutral expression, “Have you considered, the one who cursed you in the first place, might still hold a grudge against you?” 

“I’m not stupid.”

“Then why are you so gods damned stubborn?” Geralt almost yells, “You know what, go wherever you like. But know this: I will be close by.”

“Fine! If this arrangement will make you shut the fuck up, then fine,” Julian rolls his eyes, “Just don’t steal my contracts and we’ll be fine.” 

Geralt raises a brow and hums in agreement, blood rushing to his head and he feels the slow thump of his heart in a vein at his forehead. What exactly gave the other man the impression he was a contract thief in the first place, he wonders silently. Even if he doesn’t get a single fucking contract in however the fuck long it takes him to untangle this mess he won’t complain. 

In a way, Julian and Jaskier share a lot of similarities. The way he carries himself, the way his voice rises an octave when he’s mad. It’s all the same. Jaskier has always been particularly venomous and ruthless when it came to his creative rivals and now Julian concerns him as a rival and well… It’s just that Geralt isn’t used to being on the receiving end of the bard’s venom. And it hurts. Gods it hurts to see him like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed this fic will now have multiple chapters because apparently I'm shite at planning :))))) 
> 
> I want to offer my deepest thanks, my firstborne, a cake of her choosing and all my love to my wonderful friend and beta reader [TheJaskiestOfThemAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJaskiestOfThemAll/pseuds/TheJaskiestOfThemAll)
> 
> Go check her stuff out, her stories are amazing <3 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	3. Memories and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this took some time to get updated.   
> Well, no matter. It's here now, that I got unstuck. :D 
> 
> Enjoy <3

They fall into an uneasy tandem, walking south, as Julian's money was not sufficient to get him his own horse. For a few weeks they travel in complete silence; every attempt of Geralt’s at peering into the other witcher’s past is shut down with a ‘not your friend’ and ‘why do you care’. 

Julian is not a very verbose man. Or at least he tries not to be. There are times Geralt catches him murmuring under his breath about everything and nothing. He mostly complains. But sometimes there are very rare occurrences his mindless murmurs turn to lyrics and Jaskier resurfaces briefly.

Geralt likes these moments; they are peaceful, feel natural. 

He doesn't like the aftermath of these moments. Julian retreats back to his hard witcher exterior, posture arrogant, sneer and disdain plastered on his pretty face. He acts so deliberately brutish when he catches himself doing something he would never do; he curses and he spits, and at some point he tears a fine chiffon shirt into thin stripes in a fit of anger, claiming, later, that he needed bandages. 

Geralt finds himself glancing at Jaskier's lute, every so often, that lies abandoned and forgotten inside its case, hanging from Roach's saddle. He regrets not asking Jaskier to show him how to properly care for the instrument when he had the chance. He’s not sure if the weather is hurting the sensitive wood or if the strings need to be replaced. Hell, he doesn’t know if the thing needs to be oiled or not. And asking Julian… He doesn’t want to incite his wrath. 

He just hopes it will be alright until Jaskier gets his memories back.  _ If Jaskier gets his memories back, his mind supplies.  _

* * *

Tonight is a silent night. Julian’s reading the diary he kept as Jaskier. He looks engrossed, flipping page after page, brow furrowing in confusion from time to time. 

It’s the first time the witcher dared touch something so personal belonging to the bard and Geralt is curious what prompted this change. There’s been nothing, to his knowledge, that could have urged Julian to seek out his forgotten past. Not a single thing different from all the other days they’ve been travelling together. 

Geralt watches with curiosity as the witcher’s features go through a series of expressions. He feels like he should ask; perhaps he remembered something and tried to cross-reference it with his memoirs. But… he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to risk Julian stopping to try to reconnect with his past.  _ He doesn’t want to risk Jaskier never coming back again.  _

So, he does what he thinks is best, namely, he averts his gaze and continues sharpening his swords. 

It doesn’t take long for Julian to break the silence, sighing loudly and closing the worn book with a loud thud. 

“That can’t be true,” he hears him say to himself, “Surely, it’s all embellished poppycock.”

Geralt doesn’t answer and instead keeps tending to his equipment. Eyes fixed on the cold sharp steel.

“Well no matter,” Julian says after a long minute of silence, “That… was a waste of time.”

“Is there something you want to ask? I may know the answer,” Geralt queries reluctantly, his gaze never meeting Julian’s. 

Julian hums. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice thick with unanswered questions. “There are…  _ things  _ that don’t add up,” he admits. 

“Oh?” Geralt curses inwardly for the sound that escaped his lips. He hopes Julian won’t withdraw himself again, that he’ll ask the questions plaguing him. 

“I get these… dreams. Visions, or memories, really,” Julian speaks, his voice but a low rumble. Geralt can hear as the other witcher fiddles with his axes, turning them around in his hands, examining. “I see an old man, greying, bearded, wearing overly fancy robes. He’s wearing the star of Ban Ard on his neck. He looks at me with pity and mutters something, and then, nothing. Darkness.” 

Stregobor.  _ Fuck _ . The thought surprises Geralt. He hasn’t really thought of the despicable slimy man in a decade at least. It could be him Julian sees in his dreams. But how, or rather, why is he connected to the bard-turned-witcher? 

“I… may have an idea who that man is,” Geralt admits, “I know for certain that Jaskier has never met him, though. If that’s a memory, indeed, then it’s before you turned human.” 

Julian hums lowly, “Based on your bard’s diary, I spent around twenty years as a human. He says, at some point, that he’d be roughly forty years old come next week. Though he has no recollection before the assumed age of twenty.” 

“Which means,” Geralt cuts in and gets one of Julian’s famous death stares, accompanied with a snarl, “there are at least eighty years that are unaccounted for.”

“Interrupt me again and I’ll slit your throat, Wolf.”

“Would like to see you try,  _ Bear _ .” Geralt snarls in response, ”I am trying to help you here you ungrateful-” 

“The man. You said you might know him,” Julian shifts back to the conversation as if the last few exchanges never happened. 

“Hm. Need to find more information before we confront him.  _ If  _ that’s him you are talking about, then he’s extremely powerful. Could end you with a snap of his fingers. I have a sorceress...”  _ Friend? Acquaintance? Ex-lover?  _ “...friend that might be able to help.”

Geralt is reluctant to give out Stregobor’s name so freely. For once, he doesn’t trust Julian enough to not ditch him and go after the highly insane mage that used to kill and experiment on children for sport _.  _ And if it’s a big accusation to make as well.  _ Geralt hates how little he knows about Julian, his past a void, locked and secured behind countless locks.  _

“You know what, Wolf? That’s not a horrible idea. Used to bed a sorcerer from time to time, we could seek him out instead of that friend of yours but… he was a little obsessive. Yeah, no, let’s try your friend. I’m not in the mood to deal with Bori’s… everything,” he gestures abstractly, “Though the sex was phenomenal.” 

Bori. The name sounds foreign in Geralt’s mind. 

Bori. Yet it manages to send shivers down his spine, clot and twist his stomach, taste the caustic flavour of bile in his tongue. 

He shouldn’t get such a visceral reaction by hearing an unknown man’s name. He shouldn’t care if Julian has bedded many people in his past. He shouldn’t feel so much. 

_ Then why is he? _

He chokes down the undignified whine that races to escape his throat. He coughs. “She should be at her estate, ten days away from here.”

“Very well, then. We leave at first light.”

_ We.  _ Geralt feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards, ever so slightly. Yennefer might be able to bring Jaskier’s memories back, might be able to help in more ways than Julian thinks or expects of. Perhaps, in this utter shitshow of a situation, he has a slim chance of getting his friend -- _ his bard, his sunshine _ \-- back. It’s not a lot, but it’s there. And that’s comforting.

* * *

It takes less than a day for everything, the slight progress they made earlier that night, to go to shit. 

Julian is having a restless night, plagued by nightmares, tossing and turning and tossing again. Heartbeat escalating and dropping again. Throaty screams under the veil of stars hanging from the sky. 

Geralt is too worried, too scared to sleep; he opts for meditation but even that he can’t- he just can’t do. 

He thinks once or twice to wake the other witcher --and how odd that still sounds in his head, to refer to Jaskier as a witcher -- but he knows that’s not wise. If the temper of the man has revealed anything is that Geralt will surely find a hatchet buried in his carotid artery or he’ll have an Igni or an Aard thrown at his face. 

Cowardly as it may be, he values not dying by the hand of an unjustly angry witcher that used to be his best friend--  _ his secret love. _

So he sits. He sits and listens. 

“No!” Julian tosses an arm, “Why are you doing this?” he fights a ghost of his memories, “I knew youwerenotexactlyrightinyourmarbles,” the words mush together, becoming almost incomprehensible. A scream follows. Crows awaken and fly away, crying into the night sky. “YOU’RE COMPLETELY CRAZY!” Julian yells atop of his lungs, waking up, breathing heavily. Dried tear tracks shine under the dim moonlit sky, adorning his cheeks. “Don’t look at me,  _ Wolf _ ,” he barks, baring his too long canines. “Let me save a bit of dignity,” he whimpers breathlessly. 

“I-” Geralt croaks, ”Sorry,” he fixes his gaze on the grassy ground, runs his digit through the cold wet blades of grass. “Do you- Do you wanna talk?” he tries. 

“No!” Julian hisses, “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

Geralt doesn’t utter a sound and waits patiently. 

“It’s hazy,” Julian says after a long moment of uncomfortable silence, “It’s all so hazy, like my mind’s been meddled with, clouded, for a very long time. And I think that’s what happened in those, unaccounted for, years. It’s coming back, in bits and pieces. The man- I think the man used me, like a puppet,” he chokes down a sob.

There are things he’s not ready to share, yet, Geralt realizes, by the utter terror painted in those golden eyes of his. “Fuck,” Julian breathes out and it’s so weak. “Fuck,” he repeats, grabbing his head with both hands, tears falling freely on his legs, “Geralt,” he calls and for a moment he sounds so much like his Jaskier, “Geralt help! It hurts so much, Geralt, please…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Autumn is Angstum it seems. The weather helps I suppose. The waves that wrecked our beachfront help too, to settle the mood.   
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> Would love to see some ~~sweet validation~~ comments <3


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